The Fast and the Furious: Overdrive
by The Fixer - Writer
Summary: In the high-octane world of illegal street racing, some things are even more important than winning. There's a stranger in Los Angeles, and he's looking for someone...
1. The End

So I don't get sued;

This story is loosely based on events from the Universal Pictures film 'The Fast and the Furious'. The majority of characters are my own creation, but some characters used or referred to belong to Rob Cohen, Neal H. Moritz, Gary Scott Thompson, Erik Bergquist and David Ayer. All brand names belong to their respective owners and should thank me for free advertisement.

Seriously, just one car would be enough.

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Author's note;

This story was first published in original form way back on November 18th, 2002, which means it started even before 2 Fast 2 Furious was released, old or what? Although this story is essentially the same, this new version (let's call it a director's cut) is tighter, sharper, more focused and above all faster. If anyone's read the original then I really hope you stick around for this one too, this engine's still got some nitro left in it. If you're new here then thanks for taking a look, and I hope you get drawn in and enjoy reading the story as much as I enjoy writing it. If you feel like getting in touch please write a review, email me at fixer_writer10 y a h o o . c o . u k, or find me on Twitter at fixer_writer.

You've got death-defying heroes, nefarious bad guys, gleaming cars, blazing speed and blockbuster action, what more do you need? So whether you're new or returning, take a seat, grab the wheel and buckle up...

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_**THE FAST AND THE FURIOUS:**_

_**OVERDRIVE**_

* * *

"Racing is life. Anything before or after is just waiting." - Steve McQueen

* * *

"They call me the seeker,

I've been searching low and high.

I won't get to get what I'm after,

'Til the day I die."

- The Who, _'The Seeker'_.

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**CHAPTER 1:**

_**THE END**_

"You a cop?"

The bar is called 'El Gato Negro'. It is different from most other bars in that the majority of the customers are _outside_.

"Huh?"

Mostly Latinos, they stand in the parking lot or sit at worn wooden tables along the nearside wall, groups of them surrounding brightly coloured, supercharged, upgraded, tuned, modified, tweaked, badass, super-fly, imported performance cars. Rice rockets.

"I said, are you a cop?"

Hondas. Mazdas. Mitsubishis.

"Do I _look_ like a cop to you?"

People admire paintwork, body kits, in car entertainment (ICE) systems, computers, Nitrous Oxide systems, interiors, alloy wheels, but most of all, _engines_.

"You tell me. Hell, these days, I don't know what the cops look like. I'll tell you something though, when they ain't trying to bust our asses, they can look just like you and me."

Engines. That's what makes these cars so special. Paint, wax and buff your car all you want, because when it really comes down to it, all that matters here is how _fast_ you are.

"Uh, no, I'm not a... What makes you think I'm a cop anyway?"

Do it right, and it's a quarter mile in a blink of an eye.

"You ask too many questions. I ain't ever seen you before, and you're all up in my face asking questions about people. _That's_ what makes me think you're a cop."

Do it wrong...well don't even think about doing it wrong. You do that, and there's no point in even going out there. Just hand your two thousand dollars to the next guy and go home.

"I'm just interested, you know? I'm from out of town."

A few blocks away, the skyline is dominated by a vast industrial plant. The warning lights on its towers and pylons are artificial stars against the night sky, just as the cars are artificial comets on the road. The air is filled with roaring engines and their threats of intent, while speakers attempt to drown each other out with thumping bass and soaring harmonies. There is no oxygen, only a mix of exhaust fumes and burning rubber, for that is what keeps these people truly alive.

"Out of town, huh? That ain't making it any better."

Just another Saturday night in Los Angeles.

He helds his hands up, palms open. "Hey, I was just told by a guy at the bar that if I wanted to speak to someone about racing, you were the guy. Waitaminute, you _are_ Hector Hernandez, ain't you?"

The shaven-headed Latino man eyed the stranger standing in front of him; tall, short black hair, creased jeans and T-shirt, bottle of coke in one hand. His face was lean and handsome enough, with one or two days worth of thin dark stubble on his jaw, his mouth curved up into a smile. He could have been anywhere from his late teens to early twenties, carrying a relaxed gait.

"Maybe I am Hector Hernandez. Who's askin'?"

"Matt Reilly." said the stranger, offering his hand.

"Typical white-boy name. Well, Matt Reilly," said Hector, shaking his hand, "I guess I _am_ the man when it comes to racing. And even if you are a cop, I figure you don't want me cos I'm legit now. Trying to break into the NIRA circuit, you hear about that?"

Matt nodded, trying his best to look completely enthralled in what the Hispanic man was saying. He'd already heard two things about Hector; one, he was a veteran of the LA racing scene, and two, he did not get bored of talking about himself. "NIRA, huh? So why'd you give up the street racing?" he asked, trying to engage a conversation that he could find some use in, find some information, leverage. No point listening to some dreamer go on about his racing ambitions that were never going to happen. Matt had seen guys like Hector before, a dime a dozen, all convinced their big break was coming, only an hour, a day, a week away. He was yet to see one of these dreamers make it big.

Hector smiled, "See, mano? You do ask questions like a cop." He gestured to a free chair at his table. "Maybe if you had a man's drink as well, instead of a little girl's soda."

Matt inwardly winced, covering his reaction with a laugh. "I suppose, I like to keep my head clear," he said, settling into the seat. "Trying to get into the NIRA circuit can't pay well, does it? I'd rather keep on racing and make a few G's a night." It was an abrupt change of topic, but in this instance, _this_ subject, that was fine as far as Matt was concerned. Besides, anything to keep the subject on Hector long enough for him to spill some useful information.

Hector took a swig of beer. "Some things are worth more than a few G's a night."

"Like not getting busted?"

"Like being alive."

"You serious?" Matt had seen a good few blowouts and crashes, but never actually anyone getting killed. Well, maybe not in while actually racing. "I didn't think you guys got so scared on the West Coast."

"A couple years back," said Hector, "This guy shows up from out of town, calls himself Brian. Decent enough guy, drove pretty well, most people liked the son of a bitch. Anyway, he hooks up with a guy called Dom Toretto and his crew, but only it turns out that Brian's an undercover cop."

"Shit." winced Matt.

"Damn right," said Hector. "Whole thing ends up with Dom's crew in prison, in the ground or running to Mexico, or Rio or some shit, what's the difference, right?"

Matt nodded, suppressing a smile. _I'll take Geography for 200_, he thought.

"Yeah, shame man, waste of good talent. Dom was seriously good, you know? Son of a bitch was the best I ever seen, after me of course."

"So who's the best now?"

"The best, huh? Why, you looking to beat the fastest man on the streets?"

"Something like that. Is this him?" Matt laid a wrinkled sheet of paper on the table in front of Hector. A computer printout of a page from a street racing website, it showed a young man, early to mid-twenties, grinning smugly for the camera. He looked like a male model; handsome, immaculately groomed, and brimming with confidence, maybe arrogance. A group of beautiful bikini-clad women posed with him as if he were a rock star, clutching at his body. The caption below the photo read: 'Sean Westwood, King of L.A.'

Hector studied the photo. "Yeah, that's him. And I can tell you right now, you ain't gonna beat him."

"You ain't seen me drive," said Matt seriously.

"Don't have to. That yours?" Hector pointed to a black Toyota Supra a few feet away. The decals, though dusty and dirty, were amazing. Painted flames streaked down the sides of the car, gradually fading from black through deep scarlet, red through orange to yellow. The Veilside bodykit was muscular and gave the car wide wheel arches, accommodating the 20-inch O.Z 'Chrono' rims in silver.

"Uh, yeah," said Matt. "She might look a little beat up and rough, but..."

"I don't need to know what engine you got, what mods you got, cos it don't matter." said Hector suddenly. "Sean Westwood drives a badass Dodge Viper, an' that's good enough to beat you anyway, without the ton of upgrades and NOS he's got in it. And.."

Matt shook his head, ready to jump in, "A Viper's heav..."

"..._And_ there's a bunch of racers lined up to take him on. They'll be pretty pissed at the guy who thinks he can come in and just take on the big dog, esé."

"Tell me about it," Matt replied. In the short time he'd been in LA, he'd had pretty much the same reaction, some more aggressively clear in their statements.

"I mean it, Westwood don't race too often neither, so there's guys out there that have been waiting months to have a shot at him."

"He afraid to race or something?"

"Nah, he only takes on who he thinks is _worthy_ enough", Hector sneered, draining the remains of his beer. "Makes racers duke it out for the _right_ to race him."

"Like boxing. Goddamn title challenger..." Two things were clear to Matt; Hector had never made it to even take on Westwood in a one-on-one, and secondly, this was going to be way harder than he'd already anticipated.

The empty bottle was slapped down on the scored wooden tabletop with a dull, hollow _thunk_. "So you think you're worthy enough then? You just think you can walk in here, past all the best drivers in LA, and take him on?"

"Yeah."

Hector stared at Matt's steely glare for a second before bursting into a full belly laugh, attracting looks from most of the _Gato's_ customers. "Man, I thought you was crazy when we met, now I _know _it. Fine, give it a shot, but don't come cryin' to me when Westwood tells you to bail. Or when someone pops you in the mouth for trying to skip the line."

He shrugged. "Wouldn't be the first time."

"For some reason, I ain't surprised at that, man. No offence."

Matt held a hand up. "So Westwood's that good?"

"He ain't chopped liver. Hell, I only seen him beat once in L.A, and the best drivers in the country are here."

The comment perked Matt's attention. "So who beat him? Can you introduce me to the guy?"

Hector shook his head. "It was Dom Toretto that beat him. And you ain't no Dom Toretto."

"Great. Anything else I need to know?" Matt asked sourly.

"You want more, how about you wait for the TV movie of the week about him? I'm sure they'll have some asshole model play him real well. He drives damn good, got a great car, a load of cash and that's why he's the best. I remember when racing was about spending every day in your buddy's garage, trying to slap together an engine that wouldn't fall to pieces on the start line. But this guy, he's different. He's the new breed."

Matt stood, slapped Hector on the arm. "Good thing I'm old-school then."

A nod, good enough for Hector. "Produce Market, tonight. He'll be there, even if he's not racing. You wanna find him, look for the crowd of models and bodyguards."

"Bodyguards? You kidding me?"

"Guy comes from a rich family, likes to think he's some kind of a rock star, has the crew to go with it. Don't go trying to be his buddy, he's one hell of an asshole." Hector's voice softened a notch, possibly from some streak of concern developed from the other two-dozen guys he'd seen foolishly head down this path. "You want my advice, keep your car and your cash tonight and race someone else. But not that crazy bitch Wi..."

"Thanks, but I'm racing him," said Matt, defiantly. "Tonight."

Hector laughed. "I kinda like you mano, you got guts. No brains, but you got plenty guts. So where you from, Matt Reilly?"

"Around."

"Jesu Christo, after all I told you, that's all you're saying?"

Matt shrugged his shoulders. "That's all there is to say. I'm just a simple kinda guy."

"Well, simple guy, I hope you know what you're doing challenging Westwood an' all. I really hope you ain't got much riding on this."

_Much?_ Matt thought as he walked to his Supra. _No, not much_.

_Everything_.


	2. Rebel Girl

_**CHAPTER 2:**_

_**REBEL GIRL**_

Tonight, the Los Angeles produce market is something amazing.

_Technically_, it is simply an alley between two buildings in an industrial area. A long strip of tarmacadam, exactly the same as anywhere in L.A., America, the world. Technically.

But not tonight.

Tonight it is a pit lane, showroom and club all in one. On both side of this long alley sit cars of various brands, drivers of various cultures.

Toyota, Nissan, Subaru.

Caucasian, African-American, Latino, Asian.

Male and female.

A rainbow of cars line the alley. Some are just plain paintwork, some with decals, others with brand names proudly displaying the parts that make up their cars. Stereo systems play the most eclectic mix of music you will ever hear; rock, hip-hop, funk, soul, punk, techno, drum 'n bass. Some extra bass is added in by the roaring of engines, or tools buzzing as drivers do some last-minute souping up.

Gasoline, burnt rubber, exhaust fumes, pollution, perfume, dust and dirt; it's all distilled into a cloud, packed with adrenaline, floating along and infecting each driver with its energy. People talk loudly, cheer at the arrival of friends, brag and gloat about their cars.

Most cars sit with their hoods up, with drivers boasting about different high-performance, high-cost engine parts, chrome and steel. A minority keep their engines covered; they either have nothing to show or nothing to prove. At least not until they race.

Racers polish their cars obsessively, everything from windows and lights, to engine parts and exhausts. To tell the truth, the cars would definitely go much faster if the drivers removed 'unnecessary' weight such as windows and valances, but who wants to be racing in a shell of a car? And anyway, it's good enough to beat someone on the track, but it's even _better_ to do it in a sub-compact that your mother would own, albeit with upgrades.

The drivers themselves are just as diverse as the cars. It is impossible to count just how many are here. Hundreds, thousands. No gang wars, no racism, shootings or beatings; this is only about cars. This is only about being the fastest.

The guys wear jeans and T-shirts, basketball vests and shorts, no dress code like a club here.

The women on the other hand, are almost as spectacular as the cars, if not more so. Hispanic girls wearing hotpants and bikinis, mini-skirts and tight dresses. Asian-American girls wearing schoolgirl outfits, sport blue hair or dress like Manga characters. Just like the men, every woman is trying to outdo each other here, only they do it _off_ the track as well as on.

Welcome to the best time of your life, 52 weekends a year.

Somewhere in the middle of all of this, a man from out of town steps out of a dirty black Supra that has flames down the sides. Usually when he goes to these meetings, Matt Reilly is usually grinning from ear to ear. After all, what better place is there for making money, seeing friends, meeting women and checking out cars? Why wouldn't a guy smile?

But he's not smiling tonight.

It is more than the fact that he is a stranger in town, it's that he is determined. He is quietly searching for someone, and he _will_ find what he's looking for, he knows it. He'll find him. He promised himself that he would. He swore that he would.

Matt looked up and down the alley, taking in the sights all around him. It was strangely familiar and reassuring, a duplicate of meets all over the country. It was the urban equivalent of a fraternity or a club, only without elite requirements. You don't have to be a racer to be part of the street racing scene; mechanics, stylers, computer techs, DJ's, announcers, boyfriends, girlfriends, friends, spectators, they're all involved. The racers may be the star attraction, but take out any group and you kill the scene.

"No point looking for women what you're driving around in something like _that_," came a deep voice from beside him, snapping Matt out of his thoughts.

"What?" asked Matt, turning away from the crowd.

"I said, there's no point scoping for honeys when your car is inch-thick with crap." He was leaning back against a dark blue, wide-arched Nissan Skyline GTR; a short black man with a shaved head, wearing an L.A Lakers basketball vest and shorts, smiling his ass off with a dazzling set of teeth. He was muscular, incredibly handsome and had eyes that could make women smoulder with a glance.

"I'm not looking for chicks," said Matt absently. "Know where I can find Sean Westwood?"

The shorter man stood up straight. "Woah, woah, woah. I was only messing with you, bud, but I'm serious when I say don't try and take on Westwood. I seen too many guys think they could take him and end up losing their cars over it. It ain't worth it."

"So everyone keeps telling me."

"An' I'm telling you again."

Matt frowned. "You tell everyone you meet what to do?"

"Yeah, when they're out of their depth and got no idea what they're getting into. Now I ain't saying you're a bad racer, but the fact that you're straight in here and asking about Westwood shows you don't know this game. You look like you can take care of yourself, but I've seen way too many guys come up here all fire in their chests and dollar signs in their eyes thinking they're the new top dog, and they're _creamed_ ten seconds later. No money, no car, and the awkward talk with pops about where his brand new Acura is." He held a hand up. "Most don't listen to me, go right ahead anyway, so you can ignore good advice if you want, but I know how this ends."

_No offence, man, _Matt thought, _But you don't even know how this started_.

Matt went to reply, but was suddenly struck with thoughts of back home, back at late night meets where he'd taken it upon himself to speak to the occasional new kid, tell him not to race that guy, not to hit on this girl, not to place a bet with the skinny Russian dude in the corner under _any_ circumstances. Not his business to look after these kids, but he'd done it anyway.

And this was no different, only as far as everyone in L.A. was concerned, _he_ was the greenhorn. He'd been so hyped and focused since he'd taken off on this plan, ever since he'd stepped out of the door back home at top speed with his mind dead set, that he hadn't considered anyone would actually look out for him. It wasn't a feeling he'd been used to recently.

He felt his shoulders sink a little out of shame. This guy - this complete _stranger_ - was just looking to help him out, and Matt had snapped back at him like a bratty kid. He nodded contritely. "Thanks, man, I appreciate that. But don't take this the wrong way, I'm still racing him. If that's okay with you?" he added with a smile.

"Hey, I would _love_ to see someone beat that asshole, but you _ain't_ gonna do it, specially not with a half-ton of dirt holding you back."

Matt glanced at the car; true, it _was_ caked in dirt, but he wasn't here for appearances. He was just here to do what he came for and leave. "Why do you have such a boner for my car?"

The black man smiled broadly. "_Your_ car? I don't pop no boner over anything 'cept for this baby here." He swept his arm over the Skyline's chassis. Various decals covered the bodywork, hinting at what was under the hood; Sparco, Versus, Panasonic, Nitrous Express, Castrol Oil, Bridgestone Tyres, and a Nismo decal on the large rectangular spoiler. "Well, this and Eva Longoria maybe. They call me Kobe." he said.

"That 'cause you like the Lakers?"

"No, it's just my name, baby" he laughed. "And as I'm such a nice guy and all, I feel responsible for guiding a newbie like you around."

"So what makes you think I'm a new guy?"

"Number one, I know everyone and everything here. You need something, need to find someone, I'm your man. And number two, _no_ drivers turn up here with their car looking that bad. In L.A., it's all about the appearance, baby. This is the land of Hollywood and glamour 24/7."

"I thought it was about being the best."

"Well, what I say is if you can't be the best, look the best." Kobe shook his left wrist, rattling an extremely expensive-looking platinum bracelet. "Of course, I'm not too bad a racer, if I may say so myself," he grinned.

"So if you know everything, you'll know where Sean Westwood is now, huh?"

Kobe shook his head. "You just don't listen, do you?"

"Not to anyone. My name's Matt Reilly."

"Pleasure," he grinned. "And as you seem to have a death wish, Westwood ain't here just yet. I ain't gonna try and stop you no more 'cause I suppose you're big enough and dumb enough to think you know what you're doing."

Matt broke out a wide smile. "Gee, thanks _mom_."

"So, if you don't mind me asking, what makes you want to race Westwood so bad? See, we get punks turning up every week thinking they're good enough to beat him and end up walking home. So whatcha' after? Money, fame, groupies? We all got motivations, son."

Matt shifted uncomfortably. "I uh...just the money, I guess. And a challenge, got bored back home."

"Well if you ever want a real challenge, give me a call for a race."

Matt smiled. "Thanks."

"Hey, not a problem. Just promise that if you win, you'll spend some money on cleaning your..."

"Jesus!" he laughed. That was another stange sensation, he hadn't had much at all to laugh about for a while. Despite the reason he was out here - the _real_ reason - it was still a million miles from his usual life, which was good enough for him to crack a smile and a joke without having to worry about who was lurking over his shoulder. "Enough about the car already! I'll clean it when I get the chance."

"Just saying, just saying. Looks like you drove through the desert to get here, you live out that way?"

"Maybe a bit further."

"What, you some Midwest farm boy, trade in your John Deere tractor for some real wheels?"

"Not quite, though my ass _was _welded to the seat by the time I got to Kansas."

"Well you ain't in Kansas anymore, Toto, welcome to L.A. You really drove all this way to take on Westwood? You must think you got a damn fine car."

A sly grin. "She's good."

"Oh this I _gotta_ see, mind if I pop the hood and have a little look? Just might be able to get the inside knowledge if I'm gonna make a little wager, know what I'm saying?"

There was always money to be made - and lost - from racing, and Matt knew this as well as anyone. His instinct told him to be wary, told him to keep everyone at arm's length here, but he relented. He held himself as a pretty decent judge of character, and hell, if it made him feel a little better for how he'd initially reacted to Kobe, that wouldn't hurt either.

"No pressure on me to win tonight if your rent's riding on it," he said, gesturing to the door for Kobe.

"Well, baby, a guy who drives the length of the country either has a damn good reason for racing or a damn good car." Kobe reached into the Supra and popped the hood release, but paused while backing out. "Matt, do you know there's enough NOS in the back of your car to power a battleship?" He pointed to the two large pressurised tanks of nitrous oxide that sat in a metal cradle between and behind the front seats.

A shrug. "I like going fast."

"Fast? Those tanks goes up and you'll end up in front of _God_ fast."

Kobe opened the hood and whistled at what lay before him. "Not bad, not bad at all, baby. But I ain't a tech, so we need specialist knowledge." He looked around for a second and caught sight of a bunch of hip hop boys and girls breaking to some early old-school Run DMC. He smiled when he found who he was looking for. "Hey Dex! Dex, come take a look at this."

A tall guy in his late teens turned from the crowd and skated over on a pair of rollerblades, dodging in and out of racers and cars with casual ease. His hair was out in messy spikes, his clothes were baggy jeans and a loose shirt. He powered up to Kobe and pulled an inch-perfect stop right in front of the engine block.

"You still thinking you can dance, son? Long time no see, Dex," said Kobe, jackhammering fists. "Heard you were gonna be around tonight."

"Yeah, just got back from college this morning." Dex smiled in a huge white grin. "This yours?"

"Nah, belongs to a buddy of mine." He gestured to Matt. "Dex Miller, meet Matt Reilly. Dex is the resident super-brain around here. Got himself a genius-level I.Q., Goddamn photographic memory and everything."

Dex shrugged sheepishly.

They shook hands, before Dex stuck his nose into the engine block. "Stand-alone fuel management system, top range gear train set for bad-boy acceleration, looks like a straight six cylinder with, ooh, twin GReddy T-78 turbos, full computer monitoring, dual-stage nitrous feed, whole lot of customised stuff I ain't ever _seen_ before...shit, Kobe, you better not be racing this guy."

Kobe snorted a quick laugh. "You saying he can beat my girl?"

"I'm saying he's your girl's _daddy_. This beast's running 650bhp, easy."

"Yeah, well at least my car's _clean_." Kobe retorted with a half-smile.

It brought a slim measure of relief to Matt. But as he knew, as he'd seen with his own eyes, how a car was set up was sometimes wy different to how it fared in a race.

"Shit, I gotta bail, I got a date I need to keep," said Dex, looking at his wristwatch. "Good to meet you, Matt. See you guys later?"

"Mine for a beer," Kobe said.

"It's on. Later!" And with that, Dex skated off into the crowd, disappearing into the masses.

"Well, son, just cause you got good upgrades, that don't mean you can just go out there and kick Westwood's ass. I mean, you got a good car, but you even driven before? You ever even won a race?" He looked Matt up and down, who was leaning back against his Supra, staring off into the distance. "Yo, newbie, you listening to me?"

He wasn't.

He couldn't take his eyes off her.

She stood alone, leaning against a white Mazda RX-7, coolly taking in everything around her, showing no emotion or particular concern in anything or anyone. There was nothing special in what she wore; baggy black jeans and white sleeveless top, but she still oozed sex appeal. A gorgeous face with full lips was made even better with the help of two big glacial-blue eyes that scanned the alley. But her most striking feature was her hair; pure ice white and hanging softly past her shoulders.

In a sea of beautiful women and amazing cars, standing out like this is a big achievement.

"Okay, Mr 'I know everything about this place', who is she?" asked Matt, not taking his eyes off her. She hadn't noticed him yet, or at least hadn't let on that she had noticed him.

"Winter Frost." said Kobe.

"What?" Matt said, laughing a little. He turned to face Kobe. "She's called what? Is she named after a superhero or something?"

"Her name's Winter Frost, name comes from her crazy hippie parents. And unless you like hospitals you _better_ not laugh at her name. Last guy to do that can't eat solid foods no more."

"Winter Frost..." he let out a long breath.

Kobe landed a hand on Matt's shoulder. "Listen, she ain't some airhead, and I've seen a million guys try to hit her up and she just knocks their asses back down _hard_. They don't call her Nuclear Winter for nothing."

Before Matt could ask any further she moved, walking away from the Mazda, clutching her cell phone to her ear.

_Get a grip, Reilly_, he thought suddenly as he watched her go, a mix of guilt and anger in his stomach. _This ain't singles night and she ain't who you're here to find, so get the Goddamn job done_.

A chill ran down his spine.

_Get the Goddamn job done_.

He had thought it.

He had thought _that_.

He panicked for a second, feeling his heart race before he forced himself to relax, his breathing to calm. He felt himself walking forward, walking away from his Supra and Kobe.

_No...No, it doesn't mean..._

"Hey asshole!"

It snapped him out of his thoughts and immediately into action, as threats tended to do.

"Yeah, asshole, I'm talking to you!"

Matt looked up, a ripped beefcake in a tight T-shirt was walking right towards him, a vacant-looking airhead clattering along behind him in heels that were too high and clothes that were too small. Chad. The guy's name was Chad. It would be a hilarious cliche to Matt if Chad wasn't currently storming towards him with a pissed-off look on his face. Before Hector Hernandez, Matt had questioned his way around the L.A. racer scene looking for information, stopping at aftermarket parts stores, jumping on net forums, and hitting up bars. Some had helped and offered advice, some had ignored him, others...well others had been a bit more pissed that this strangers was asking questions. Others like Chad.

"I thought I told you not to come around here," Chad snarled, pointing a finger at Matt as he came to an abrupt halt in front of him. "You all up in my face, asking questions."

"Listen, pal, nobody wants any trouble, we're all here for some racing and a good time, right?" Matt looked back, realising he'd walked further than he thought, now closer to the white Mazda RX-7. He gave a small node to Kobe, who stood with an expression that was a mix of half concern, half amusement.

"I told you not to come around here," Chad repeated.

"Yeah, you might have dropped that in before, _chucklehead_." He spat the final word, feeling his patience rapidly running out.

"I don't like you asking questions. What, are you some kind of under..."

"Yeah, yeah, undercover cop. I get that a lot out here. I'm part of the anti-moron task force."

Chad reeled back, pulling his right arm up and back in an exaggerated move, clearly signposting he was aiming a thunderbolt of a punch at Matt's face. The guy way big, no doubt about it, and athletic enough too, enough to let Matt know he wasn't just a meathead for show, he could move fast when he wanted to. Had probably played high school football, maybe even QB, but not the starter, not with moves _that _clearlysignposted and obvious to Matt.

The fist came hurtling forward, Matt simply ducked the wild haymaker, hitting back with a sharp jab to Chad's exposed underarm. The blow took him by surprise, his body shifting to the right as he instinctively sought to protect the area. Matt used this momentum, grabbing Chad's collar and pitching him down and forward. Chad's head _thunked_ off the Mazda, dazing him just enough for Matt to pin a knee in his back, forcing him to the warm tarmac. He grabbed Chad's right arm and forced it behind his back, leaned in to whisper in the guy's ear, "Listen, this is over, okay? Otherwise I snap your wrist and every time you shift gear for six months it'll hurt like hell."

Chad nodded, the fight out of him. Matt got to his feet quickly, ready to react in case Chad tried something, but the big guy rose a little unsteady.

But he was the least of Matt's worries.

"What the _frigging hell_ do you think you're doing?"

Matt looked up to see Winter Frost standing back at the car - her car as it would seem - and staring hard. Unhappy was not the word.

The driving drum beat of Bikini Kill's _Rebel Girl_ rang strongly from the Mazda's ICE system, Kathleen Hannah's vocals screaming out;

_"That girl thinks she's the queen of the neighborhood,_

_I got news for you, she is!"_

_Not a good sign_, thought Matt.

Winter went to the Mazda, quickly checked for damage before turning on Chad. "You ever get sick of throwing punches, idiot?"

A finger pointed at Matt. "He was..."

"Assmunch, I don't care if he was mugging the Easter Bunny and Jeebus, you don't start a fight near my car." She prodded a finger into Chad's chest. "That paintjob's worth more than your girlfriend's fake cans. Looks a helluva lot better too."

Chad's girl tottered over on her stripper heels. "Listen, bitch..."

"Honey, don't waste your precious limited brainpower on trying to deny it. You got more silcone in there than I do in my engine hoses."

She scowled at Winter for a long couple of seconds before finally settling on her knockout comeback. "Dyke," she hissed.

"Oh, my _gawwwd. _That is like, _sooo funny_!" Winter grinned in a put-on dumb Valley girl accent before her voice went back to normal. "Seriously, making comments about my sexuality, is that...is that _really_ the best you can do?"

The girl frowned in confusion. "Bitch."

"Damn straight," Winter winked. "And don't you forget it."

The girl spun, walking off with a visibly chastised Chad, as Winter turned to Matt. "And you, _idiot_..."

His eyebrows shot up. "What the hell did I do?"

"You threw that piece of shit into my car!"

"I threw that piece of shit down, your car just got in the way." He finished with a lopsided grin.

It had no effect.

"You're lucky there's no dings in the paintwork, otherwise you be patching it up with broken fingers." She brushed a long strand of white hair out of her eyes.

He rolled his eyes. Distraction after distraction, and all he wanted to do was find Sean Westwood. "What, your boyfriend's gonna kick my ass?"

"Boyfriend?" she snapped.

"Fine, girlfriend then..."

"More like me, dumbass!" she scowled. "Although kudos for recognising non-traditional sexual relationships..."

Matt pinched the bridge of his nose. "Christ, I wish someone had told me about _you_ instead of Westwood..."

Winter's head snapped up. "What?"

"Nothing, I just..."

"So you're _him_. You're the guy going round town asking about Westwood."

Matt realised that Winter was looking at him with an expression he hadn't seen out here yet. In everyone he'd asked, they'd all looked at him with bored resignation, or amusement, or outright hostility. But Winter was looking at him with curiosity.

"Why?" she asked, all trace of aggression suddenly gone, a faint smile instead.

"Why what?"

"Why him, why Westwood? Every other dreamer I've heard of coming through here says they want to be the best. You want to beat Westwood."

"Won't that make me the best anyway?" he said, maybe a little too sharply. He felt the hackles rise despite himself.

Her smile grew a little "Not with me around." Her eyes narrowed, "What are you really..."

"Listen, I don't know you, and it's none of your business what I'm here for," he snapped, emotions overriding his better judgement, and not for the first time.

Winter folded her hands on her hips, the smile clean off her face. "Yeah, you're right, you don't know me. But I know assholes like you, seen guys like you come through here every weekend."

Matt laughed sourly. "Guys like me?"

She nodded. "Yeah, you're all the same. Import paid for by daddy's credit cards, stick a tank of NOS in and you think you're a racer."

"Not even close." It had struck a nerve, picked at a scab deep in his psyche, and he couldn't stop himself from lashing back. "On second thoughts I should have thrown that idiot into your car harder, or even better, shown you how to drive."

"What?" Her voice dripped with venom. "You think this is some kind of Barbie car? You think I'm just here to show off my cleavage and pout for the guys?"

"So what, your tits are just on show by accident?" he asked, pointing to her vest.

"Yeah, like I got to justify how I dress to the King of Morons," she replied icily. "And believe me, if my tits _were_ on show, every guy here would be drooling."

"Woo yeah!" came an anonymous cry from within the crowd.

"Well you can be very proud of that," Matt said, "I'll stick to racing."

"You? Racing? I could run your skinny ass right off the road if I wanted."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Not much of a challenge to beat guys like you, but I'll do it anyway as a warning to other misogynistic pricks. Oops, sorry, am I using too many big words? Who cares? In fact, I don't even know why I'm wasting my time speaking to you. Go see if some airhead is impressed with you being such a _hardcore_ racer," she mocked.

Matt's ears flared. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. And if I wasn't too busy tonight, I'd show you how to race," he retorted.

She laughed a little at the absurdity of this claim. "So what's keeping you from getting your ass kicked by me tonight? Got a meeting at Chauvinist Assholes Anonymous?" Winter's eyes narrowed as she put all the pieces together. "You son of a... You think you're racing Westwood tonight, don't you? You've been asking over town for him, and that's why you're here."

Although he'd never admit it, Matt was impressed.

"Join the line, pal, I've got a shot at him first," she said, jabbing a finger into his chest. "You think you can just waltz on in here and be the best? Try going through me."

Matt looked down at the finger still prodding him, then looked her directly in the eyes. "Anytime."

Around the two of them, the air was full of tension. People stood watching, momentarily ignoring their machines for the sake of this soap opera.

"Ah, the warrior's spirit." It broke the silence, ringing out and attracting everyone's attention. "The warrior's spirit defines him, transcends his physical form. I do love to see it in others, no matter how slight, but what I love more is when the battle is over _me_."

Matt turned, ready to snap at whoever had decided it was the right time for a downright ludicrous sermon, but as he did, a wave of bile rushed up his throat. Staring right at him, coldly and inquisitively through a pair of Gucci sunglasses, was Sean Westwood. His handsome - no, _pretty_ - face was crowned with immaculately groomed short brown hair and he carried the faint scent of $500 Armani cologne.

Sean Westwood, King of L.A.'s streets, and the man Matt had been looking for, was now a matter of inches from him. Behind Westwood was an entourage of over a dozen people, made up of scantily-clad girls and hulking brutes, the latter clearly there as bodyguards as Hector had explained.

Matt eagerly scanned the crowd...but no, nothing. He forced his hands out of the fists they had instinctively formed, while trying to think of something to say. A mixture of emotions shot through him, making him want to lash out explosively, scream or lapse into shock. He had driven all the way across the country, planning what he was going to say when the moment came, and now he couldn't think of a single thing. He didn't have to.

"I hear you've been asking questions about me, am I right?" Westwood's voice was educated; calm, clear and crisp. "Well, have you?"

"Yeah, Sean," growled one of the bouncers behind Westwood, "That's him. He's come in from out of town and been asking everybody with a car about you. Seems he wants to race you real bad."

"You came here just for _me_?" asked Westwood, raising his hands in mock surprise, "Good for me!" he sneered, his mouth curling up at the side.

The alley had fallen completely silent and the crowd around them was growing by the second; it seemed like everyone wanted to know what Westwood was saying.

"Well, can you even speak, _boy_?"

Matt felt his fists ball at the last word.

"Well Goddamn," Westwood said, grandstanding to the crowd, "He talks to everyone in town about me, then he's struck dumb at the very sight of me! I mean, I am gorgeous, but I've blown his freaking mind!"

The crowd laughed a little, Westwood's entourage a little louder than the rest.

"I was wondering if you can drive as well as you talk," Matt mumbled, the words tripping over his tongue. "I wanted to see if you were as good as they say." He didn't know where the words had come from, but he was glad that they had.

Westwood stared for a moment, cold and hard, before laughing loudly. "Good as they say?" He turned to his entourage standing behind him, "Good as they say?" They all laughed along with the joke, right on cue. "I'll tell you this for free, kid," he said, facing Matt again, "I'm even better than they say."

More laughter.

Matt swallowed, the bile sinking, his mind rebooting. This was what he wanted, this was why he was here.

_Man up, Reilly_. He'd been told it enough times, drilled into him so often that he'd lost count. _Be a man_.

He pulled himself up to his full height, the shock and surprise now wearing off. His eyes refocused, his jaw set firm. The two young men now faced each other, like a pair of gunslingers in an old western movie.

"Prove it."

The laughter stopped.

Out of the corner of his eye, Matt saw a faint smile spread over Winter's lips. It couldn't be for him, could it?

"Listen you little..." One of the bulls over Westwood's shoulder made a grab for Matt, but was stopped by Westwood, who was now giving Matt a polar stare.

"Like I even have to prove it to _you_," said Westwood with a look of contempt. "Okay, this is what's going to happen; I'll race someone tonight, one on one, but first there'll be a heat to see who it is. No point running against someone I'll beat easily." He chuckled softly. "Oh wait, I'll do that anyway. Mystery man."

"Matt."

"Matt, eh?" Westwood pondered this for a second. "You're in, _Matt_. Bring your girlfriend as well," he said, pointing at Winter, "She's wanted a shot at me for a while, though I can't blame her." He smiled at Winter, making her roll her eyes. "Although we know what she _really_ wants to do with me."

Winter popped the door of her RX-7 and climbed inside without saying a word.

Westwood turned to his group. "Find Ding Alvarez and Zack Grey. It's about time I reminded everyone who rules these streets."


	3. Respite

_**CHAPTER 3:**_

_**RESPITE**_

Jones Avenue has been invaded.

Jones is a long, straight road in an industrial district like so many in L.A's outskirts. Small two-storey warehouses, workshops and garages make up the majority of the buildings in the area. But at this very moment, the buildings are empty and the streets are free of traffic; all apart from the hard core of racers for whom L.A is one big circuit.

Jones has been scouted for a few days and picked as the destination for tonight's racing. With the cops always on the look-out to bust racers, locations have to be changed every night to give you the best chance of not getting caught.

People use scanners to constantly monitor the police frequencies, making sure that the cops are busy some place elsewhere. Up and down the quarter mile strip of Jones Avenue that is now packed on both sides with racers, a network of walkie-talkies links them together.

Right now, everything is on pause; the racers sit in their cars with the engines running, ready to bail if the cops arrive, like gazelles at the sight of a lion. They'll only begin to leave their cars when a report comes over the scanners signalling a serious incident that'll distract the cops for a while. Even then, they won't stray far from their wheels. Showing off your new hairstyle? Trying to get a date? You should have done that back at the Produce Market, 'cos now it's all about racing.

Five.

Ten.

Fifteen, the minutes tick by as they wait for something to keep the cops busy. Murder, hold-up, hostage taking, the racers aren't picky.

The atmosphere this waiting creates is thick and suffocating in the air; tension, excitement and adrenaline, fear, joy and panic. Remember what it was like when you first did something _really_ exciting? Your heart pounding, your head spinning...double it. Then double it again.

Ain't even close.

It's clear, at least to the racers, that there have been races at Jones before; the red painted line that marks the start of a quarter mile dash has faded over time, but not enough to disappear completely. Ask any of the older racers and they'll tell you that the line has been there forever. It may be worn and beat up, a nuisance to some and insignificant to others, but it's still there; it belongs on the streets.

Sitting on this line are four cars;

Winter Frost, in her white Mazda RX-7, with a silver, black and grey 'Ice Dragon' design down both sides of the Vesus Motorsport bodywork.

She has 'Blood Sugar Sex Magik' by the Red Hot Chili Peppers kicking ass on her iPod, drumming her thumbs on the steering wheel to the music. She goes through her usual pre-race ritual of setting up the NOS delivery programme on the laptop sitting on the passenger seat, and opening the valves on the NOS tanks under her seat. She doesn't have to worry about the engine or any components of the car; she stripped and checked them all herself in the last two days.

She still finds it amusing that some women only check their hair as a pre-race.

Matt Reilly's comments still ring in her mind however, boiling her blood. How dare anyone question her abilities? But she's going to prove him wrong tonight, he'll see.

Domingo 'Ding' Alvarez, in his red and black Honda Civic Type R complete with Westside Corp 'Stealth' bodykit, with 'Baby' written on the hood; the name of his girl.

He is listening to House of Pain's 'Jump Around'. It's his song for getting fired up for a race. He beats this bunch of pussies and then kicks that fag Sean Westwood's ass, and then it's Ding Alvarez, King of L.A. After that, it all the girls he wants, all he can handle. As for Baby? Well, she's nice an' all, but he's going for something high class. Maybe even one of the girls that's always around with Westwood. Though why only one?

Zack Grey, in his dark blue Mitsubishi Evolution VI, with a large silver Mitsubishi logo vinyled on the hood.

He has Metallica's 'Enter Sandman' playing. He grunts and growls, screams and shouts, smashing his hands into his head. He wants to win this race badly, for him it's all about the prestige of winning. He failed everything in high school, failed to get into the military because of his health, failed, failed, failed. He's a failure at everything, he knows it, he knows it. Everyone knows it and they're all laughing at him, like they always have. But he's going to win and show them all.

Matt Reilly, in a dirty black Toyota Supra, with the flame decals.

There is no music, only the engine ticking over. All sounds, scents and feelings are secondary to Matt, they are processed and stored at the back of his mind. It's simple in theory, he wins this race and he gets to race Westwood. He beats Westwood, he gets what he wants and leaves L.A. Where he goes after that, he doesn't know. There is no point in thinking that far ahead.

He takes a deep breath and focuses a quarter mile down the road, where a large section of the racers have gathered, hungry for the big finish. The finish lines of L.A. have seen crashes, smashes and split second decisions, but Matt didn't want any of those, just for it to be nice and simple.

Mulling it over in his mind, Matt realised the simplicity of the concept; he gets from here to there faster then anyone else, no big deal. If only it were as easy as that, as easy as theory. Still, this doesn't stop the NOS-injected diesel engine in his chest from doing backflips.

Matt watched as a leggy rockabilly redhead strode out into the middle of the road between Ding and Zack, after getting the go-ahead for a start. She pulled a scarlet hankerchief from a back pocket of her skintight denims and waited. A particularly gruesome murder up in the hills had tied up the cops. De La Soul were wrong; for racers, 187 is the magic number.

Time to get down to business, and business could be profitable tonight. As well as the right to race Westwood, there was a buy-in of 2G's per racer, meaning the victor would walk away with 8G's in their back pocket. Not a bad night all-in-all.

_If_ you win.

Matt reached up and flicked on the palmtop computer attached to the dash, the 3x5inch screen flaring to life. He selected the icon marked '', setting up his NOS delivery programme that linked the engine to the two cylinders of gas positioned between and behind the Supra's front seats. As well as controlling engine sparking and launch control, the computer monitors engine output, and tells the driver the best time to fire a shot of Nitrous Oxide gas that will boost the horsepower of the engine to incredible levels, double or sometimes triple the usual output for a brief moment. It is essentially a 'turbo boost' if you wish to use such a crude term.

Without the computer programme's guidance, a driver can put in NOS before the engine's power level peaks and not have much effect, or put in too much NOS at an early stage and blow the engine to pieces. Of course, only a complete amateur or someone suicidal would put in a NOS shot too early.

The system ran a check and announced that all components of the engine and the NOS system were working. No serious faults to stop him now. But he couldn't just go into this race - this race with so much at stake - without tactics. If he was to win this race, not only would he have to be fast, but he'd have to be smart too, although a little bit of luck wouldn't go wrong. It was time to think this over.

Matt looked over to his left. Immediately next to him was Zack Grey's Evo, with Zack still thrashing around like he was being electrocuted.

Matt looked down at the wheels of the Evo...good, the chassis was sitting quite high above the wheels. It was stuff like this that Matt noticed, and it was stuff like this that made him good at what he did.

Maybe he didn't have a mechanic's knowledge of how to build and service a car, but he sure knew specifications. It had been his speciality back home, pouring over technical manuals and magazines until he knew the facts and figures for most performance cars. Maybe a bit geeky, sure, but it had made him money over the years.

And one thing he certainly knew was that a showroom Mitsubishi Evo was a lot less powerful than his Supra, only churning out around 280bhp. On a rally circuit that the Evo was built for, it would have smoked the Supra, but on a straight street drag it needed some help. The fact that the Evo sat high on its axles may not have meant much to other people, but to Matt it meant that Zack Grey hadn't added the extra 100lbs or so worth of parts and upgrades that would have made the Evo as powerful as his Supra. Scratch one car.

Ding Alvarez's Civic was faring a little better. Despite an average racer's Civic running about 250-300bhp, Ding's Civic positively growled on the line. However, with a tiny tailgate spoiler stuck on the ass of the Civic, Matt knew the Honda had nothing like the downforce his Supra had. Downforce was essential in keeping the car pushed down against the road, more downforce meant less of the engine's power was lost, and Ding lacked that. Scratch two cars...probably.

There was only one wildcard, as far as Matt was concerned, Winter. Her Mazda RX-7 was probably similar to his Supra in nearly every way. Buy an RX-7 or a Supra from a showroom, and you drive both away with a turbocharged engine that cranks out 276 brake horsepower. Both are nearly identical in weight, length, width and height. The only differences are that the Supra has a better power-to-weight ratio by about 0.2%, while the RX-7 has a better torque-to-weight ratio by about 0.1%. And this is all discounting upgrades.

But these were far from showroom models.

As far as he could tell, the race was between Winter and himself, and it would be decided by who has the best upgrades, a little skill, or perhaps a shot of luck.

Out of the corner of his eye, Matt saw Westwood standing there, grinning smugly. It was so tempting to get out and grab Westwood, hit him again and again and again and again. It would solve nothing, and it would make everything worse, but it sure as hell would have made Matt feel a whole lot better. But this wasn't about him.

_"Help me, Matt_._"_

The voice came through crystal clear, despite all the noise. It always did.

_"Help me, Matt_._ Get me out of here_._"_

He dispelled all thoughts to the back of him mind apart from one; Win. He needed this race, or who knows when he would get another opportunity.

Then, one movement concentrated Matt's thoughts, emotions and fears into one.

The redhead raised her arms high above her head, the hankerchief motionless in the still night. Almost time to go.

Each of the four cars roared above the whoops and hollers of the crowd, their engines screaming, desperate to put all their pent-up power into action. The cars strained against their handbrakes, like pitbulls on the leash. Exhausts pump fumes furiously, while ICE's do the same with music.

The hands were still.

Each driver has one eye on the redhead and the other on the green line a quarter mile ahead.

Still.

Matt's heart is pounding, thumping around his ribcage like a pinball. His palms are sweaty. He's holding his breath. His mouth is dry. His eyes water, making him want to blink, but he's afraid he'll miss the start. Even with all this, his mind is still homed in; homed in on the redhead, the hankerchief, homed in on the finish line, and homed in on why he's doing this.

_"Help me Matt_._ Get me out of here_._ Please_._ I'm trapped_._"_

Still.

Forever has been compressed, eternity is this one moment.

Still.

Still.

Down.


	4. 402 Point 3

_**CHAPTER 4:**_

_**402.3**_

Matt hauled the handbrake off and slammed his foot onto the gas, the force of the acceleration pushing him back into the padded Sparko seat. The computer controlled launch control had worked perfectly, giving him a rapid and easy start.

Unfortunately for Matt, it seemed that the three other racers also had it, and it had done the same for them.

The four cars charged off the line in unison, a roar of engines and the stink of burnt rubber. They blasted off as one, hauling past the redhead, the draft blowing the hankerchief out of her hand. Everyone in sight went wild, all except Sean Westwood, who couldn't help but wonder about this guy who was so interested in him, this stranger from out of town. It was probably nothing, just another guy who'd read about him on the net and decided to try their luck against Westwood. Hell, it probably just proved that the whole of the country knew about him. Westwood smiled.

10 metres.

The four cars were in line with each other, only a few millimetres in it so far. Right now, it was impossible to call it, but races aren't won in the first 10 metres, they're won in 402.

_Shit_, thought Matt. _What if I guessed wrong? What if their cars ARE better than mine? _

_What do I do then except put a gun to Westwood's head and force him to race me?_

_Pull the trigger?_

20 metres.

Distracted by his thoughts, Matt upshifted badly, feeling the gearbox strain and tear. For a split second, the engine sighed and faltered, before giving full power again. Matt groaned, knowing that his doubt had taken his mind off the race and had resulted in that mistake. It hadn't cost him more than two inches in distance, but any more mess-ups like that in this race and he was screwed.

_Come on Matt, mind on the job_.

His father used to tell him that when he was a kid. 'Mind on the job, Mattie', or 'Keep your eye on the ball, Matt', he was always full of words of encouragement. It saddened and angered Matt to think that he had lost a great father.

_Get a grip, Reilly_. _Don't think about the old man_ _just now_.

The pack was beginning to split, with Zack's blue Evo streaking out into the lead, its engine whirring out a high-pitched noise as it was pushed to the very limit.

"Ain't happening," muttered Matt, "Just ain't happening." He stamped his foot on the gas, glancing at the Evo as it increased its lead, now a whole car length in the lead.

He quickly shot a look to his left, seeing that he was still in line with Winter and Ding, give or take an inch.

50 metres.

_Not for long_, thought Matt, shifting again, smoothly this time. He had expected the Evo to go into the front at the start, but he knew that with a much smaller engine and less horsepower, the Evo wouldn't hold the position for too long.

_I hope_.

70 metres.

The four cars whipped along like a blastwave, screaming along Jones and its lines of wild spectators in a split-second.

Inside the blue Evo, Zack was zeroed on the finish line ahead of him, his hands so tight around the steering wheel that they were beginning to cramp up. He trembled with excitement, his entire body shaking at the thought of winning. He only took his mind from the race when he saw the sleek figure of a black Toyota Supra creeping up on the far right of his field of vision.

Shocked, he turned to watch the Supra as it drew level with him, then to his left as he was matched by Winter and Ding's cars, all steadily overtaking him with their more powerful engines.

"No!" Zack screamed, panic flooding him. "No, no, no!" He thumped the gas pedal repeatedly, trying in vain to squeeze extra power from the Japanese engine, but in its top gear, the Evo was gone already.

100 metres.

A feeling of relief hit Matt as he stormed past the Evo, his powerful 660bhp turbocharged engine coming into its own in a higher gear. _One down_, he thought, _Two to go_.

In his mind's eye, Matt could see the Evo falling away from the pack, and the only thing Zack could do now was to not wreck his engine trying to win a lost race. He had seen racers tear their cars to pieces when it was clear they had no chance of winning, and one thing worse than losing is losing _and_ having a trashed car.

With a shrill beeping sound that startled him, the Supra's palmtop computer announced on its screen that Matt had reached the optimum time for a NOS input. A pre-programmed animation accompanied the audio alarm; a flashing message saying simply; '_BURN IT'_.

Almost on reflex, Matt hit a small black button on the steering wheel with his right thumb and held on tightly. From behind him, he heard a short, sharp hiss as a shot of nitrous oxide discharged from the pressurised cylinder and raced down the clear plastic tubing that fed it directly to the engine. The gas entered the combustion engine and was ignited instantly, a shot of raw adrenaline for the vehicle.

3...2...1...

Matt upshifted at the exact point when the NOS hit, a trick he had learned back home for gaining maximum effect from the boost. The Supra surged forward like a jet, throwing Matt against the driver's seat as the car accelerated at a rate the original designers never had in mind. A rapid glimpse at the dash showed Matt the silver needle on the speedometer relentlessly charging past 100mph, almost as quickly as the Toyota tore up the streets of L.A.

150 metres.

Almost at the same time, Winter and Ding engaged their own Nitrous systems, but with very different results.

While Winter's Mazda accelerated as if it had been fired from a cannon, Ding's Civic looked as if it had been _hit_ with a cannon.

Due to a tiny flaw that had gone unchecked, a hole in Ding's NOS line had leaked the gas into the engine compartment instead of injecting it into the engine itself. Once the volatile gas touched the red-hot Honda i-VTEC engine, it ignited explosively, instantly frying a number of key engine parts and killing Ding's race. As a punctuation, the mini-explosion ripped the cover from the bonnet, whipping it off the chassis and into the air.

The sections of the crowd that were not running for cover cheered loudly; everyone likes to see a winner, but they like it more to see a spectacular _loss_.

In his Supra, Matt did not even have time to register what had happened to Ding, knowing only that he wasn't a threat anymore.

175 metres.

Despite their experience telling them they shouldn't do it, Matt and Winter both briefly checked back at their former opponent, his red Civic skidding wildly along the road, sending racers scattering. With no power from the engine, the Honda coasted to a halt, with nothing seriously injured except for Ding's pride and bank balance.

With the immediate drama over, all attentions turned back to Matt and Winter.

120 miles per hour.

200 metres.

Halfway there and there were only two cars left in it, one black, one white. Ying and Yang.

Male and Female. Equal and opposite.

210 metres.

220.

230.

Neck and neck all the way.

Matt looked across the street, the temporary raceway, _their_ proving ground, and even from a distance, he could see that Winter was smiling, a gleaming, dazzling beam. She blew him a kiss - one of goodbye as opposed to romance - the instant before a NOS boost rocketed her car forward, sending it streaking away from Matt.

_You think that's too much for me? Surprise surprise baby_.

270 metres.

Another shot of NOS blew into Matt's engine, timed with another upshift, taking the Supra up into 6th and final gear. Up to 140mph; warp speed.

Back up next to Winter.

The world whipped past at unimaginable speeds, the rest of the universe becoming a blur to the two chariots locked side by side. Everything else; the crowds, the buildings, Los Angeles, the world, was unimportant at that very moment.

Taking his hand from the gearstick, Matt turned to blow his foe a kiss, albeit one loaded with sarcasm and wrapped in a mischievous grin, before getting back to the serious business of winning. _Very good, Reilly, now just win the damn race_.

Looking back to the road, he missed the frigid glare Winter returned before she too concentrated on the finish line, looming large in her windscreen.

300 metres.

Just another 102 metres to go and the race was over, and that distance would be covered in seconds.

The knot growing ever larger in his stomach, Matt was almost sure that he was going to win it, _just_. After all, his car was almost certainly more powerful and definitely had more...

_What the hell?_

Matt looked to his left, and saw Winter's RX-7 a full three feet ahead of him, obviously defying his race logic. He couldn't believe it, just couldn't believe it at all. He was in top gear, foot to the floor, going at 170mph and she was still beyond him. How?

350 metres.

_Shit! She must have replaced_..._damn, how could I have missed it?_. It was the one thing, the only crucial thing that he hadn't taken into account. Where as a Supra has a 6-speed gearbox, a regular RX-7 only has a 5-speed gearbox. While the two cars are evenly matched in most other area, it is with the gear train that the Supra wins every time. With the extra gear ratio, a Supra can outperform an RX-7, but when they're _both_ with six gears, it's the Mazda that's the better car.

It just hadn't occurred to Matt that Winter could have easily added a 6-speed transmission to her car, boosting her power level _beyond_ his. Against everything he had been taught about racing, he had underestimated his opponent, and now that was going to cost him dearly.

_Unless_... He debated for the smallest of moments, trying to figure what the consequences would be if it went wrong. _And if it goes wrong, it'll go _very_ wrong_. His mind set, he now knew it.

He knew there was only one thing left to do, but it was crazy.

It had never been tested.

It would probably destroy his car.

It was probably suicide.

And it just might work. _I only hope that it isn't too late_.

Taking his hand from the stick, he blindly groped back and found one of the tanks of NOS. Slipping his hand around the valve, he found a small circular button, and jabbed his finger down on it twice. In the blink of an eye, the entire remaining contents of the NOS canister were sucked out via the feed tube, forced under Matt's seat, through the chassis of the car, up into the engine block and into a special NOS injector.

A normal NOS injector squirts the gas into the engine while it's firing, where the gas ignites and adds more power to the engine by means of the small explosion making the pistons stroke quicker. Matt's special injector however, compressed the NOS in a separate container, ignited it and _then_ forced it into the engine. The result was something like an afterburner on a jet fighter, giving a short-lived but highly powerful boost. Unfortunately, jet fighters are designed to handle these forces, but car engines are not.

The NOS literally exploded into the engine, bucking the car as if it had been rocked by the hand of God. It leapt forward, pinning Matt tightly back into his seat with the sudden and rapid acceleration. Unable to sit up or even move his body, it was all he could do to keep his hands gripped on the wheel.

Glancing at the Toyota's dash, Matt could see the rev counter going off the chart, the engine operating way, _way_ past it's redline. _Not good_, he thought, barely having time to imagine what the effects would be on the engine before concentrating his mind on the race once again. In saying that, there was nothing he could do about the race now, except hope his boost had worked for the better.

With the speed that the nitrous had hit the engine, some of it did not even have time to power the engine pistons, instead launching out of the back of Matt's car as a three-foot jet of blue flame. It looked truly spectacular, and sparked off a cheering frenzy in the crowd.

390 metres.

180mph.

With the engine screaming like a banshee at full tilt, the Supra shot forward, picking up speed with every inch. And with every inch, the distance between the two cars dropped.

Closer. Two-and-a-half feet between them now.

The vibrations rattling through the car buzzed through the steering wheel and the seat, moving all the way through Matt's body, clicking his vertebrae, rattling his teeth. His grip on the steering wheel threatened to tear his knuckles through his skin, and his head was beginning to ache from all the pressure the acceleration had exerted on him.

It was no distraction at all.

395.

_Come on, come on you son of a bitch._

Closer. Two feet and gaining.

The jet of flame from Matt's exhaust had disappeared, now replaced by thick plumes of black smoke; a clear indication of the damage that the afterburner had caused. But that was something to be dealt with later.

397.

One foot.

_I am _not_ losing this race_._ Certainly not by one foot_.

Closer.

Closer to Winter.

Neck and neck.

Both racers had an overwhelming desire to glance at each other, to see where the other was, but kept their eyes firmly drilled on the finish line, as if willpower alone would decide the outcome.

398.

_"Matt_. _Please_._ I'm trapped_._"_

399...

Matt broke.

He couldn't take it anymore.

He turned.

Looked.

Gasped in fright.

400...

Ahead by a matter of inches.

...

He couldn't believe it.

...

He was ahead by a matter of inches.

402.3 metres.

And finish.

Matt touched gently on the brake, but the sense of joy mixed with the adrenaline rushing through his veins made him feel like he could have stopped the car using his feet. He had won, he had done it, and now only the even harder part was remaining. Now he would have to beat Sean Westwood.

The Supra came to a gradual halt, and was immediately mobbed by impressed racers and spectators. Impressed by the decals, the driver, the technology, but most of all, impressed by the win. They laughed, cheered and banged on the chassis, all applauding this new victor, especially those who had bet on him. From a blue Nissan Skyline, a man called Kobe laughed at his new friend's victory.

Clouds of black smoke continued to pour out of the exhaust, a testament to the damage that the engine had suffered, but no-one cared, least of all Matt Reilly.

He slowly removed his aching hands from the steering wheel as if they were as heavy as lead. Trembling, he brought them to his face and sighed through his fingers, his heavy breathing reverberating in his cupped hands.

His shoulders sagged as he slumped forward against the steering wheel for a minute, before beating his fists on the roof with pure joy. No-one could hear him over the engine and the noise of the crowd, but that didn't matter, he said it anyway.

"Westwood, you son of a bitch, it's time."


	5. Breakout

_**CHAPTER 5:**_

_**BREAKOUT**_

He calmed. Just a little.

His chest felt like it had developed ADHD all on its own, and was alternating between trying to eject his heart and trying to inhale every molicule of oxygen in Los Angeles.

A sudden bang on the Supra's roof jolted him out of it. Winter.

Pissed. Off.

He wound down the window, she stood close, he could see her chest rising and falling quickly with adrenaline and anger. Well, he _tried_ to focus on that.

"Hey, you raced well..." he began, eventually making eye contact with her.

"Please, I don't need your platitudes," she scowled. She reached inside, switched the engine off then tossed the keys to Matt.

"What the hell are you doing? Sore loser?"

"Very. But that doesn't mean I want to see you do any more damage," she turned and started to walk off.

"Damage?" He stepped out of the Supra, the warmth in his chest gone, replaced with a cold, thudding dread.

She motioned to the front of the car. "You've blown your manifold, at least. So I've shut the damn engine off before you cook your pistons."

Christ, she was right. A haze of steam rose from the engine block of the Supra, visible even in the warm Californian night, while the last of the black smoke chugged from the exhaust. Matt sagged, a sudden worry. His mind threw up barriers; _Don't think about it, don't think about it_... "This is bad, isn't it?"

"Depends. It'll still run, should still drive in a low gear okay."

"What about racing?"

"Race?" she laughed a little. "It'll drive. That's about the best I can say until you get into the engine proper."

Good-natured laughter broke into their conversation as Kobe appeared out of the crowd, lightly applauding Matt.

"It ain't funny, K," Winter said in a low voice.

"I ain't laughing at you, Nuclear," he replied as sincerely as he could manage. "But our man Matt Reilly right here just came through for me. That bet? I made a _killing_!"

"I'm about to do the same," Winter said eyeing Matt, roughly pushing a sympathy hug from Kobe away.

"Congratulations, you just made yourself an enemy for life," Kobe laughed. "She's just pissed cause she doesn't lose very often. You should be happy you won, Winter's one of the best we got."

She abruptly broke into a beaming smile and kissed him on the cheek. "Thanks, K, at least _someone_ recognises my brilliance," she said, turning and drawing Matt a look of death which he now took to be his default setting.

"He only won because of that _thing_ in his car. What kind of idiot puts...puts _that_ in their car anyway?" she huffed. "What the hell was that thing anyway?"

"An afterburner, kinda experimental."

"Kinda _dumb _if you ask me. Thicken the intake, maybe that thing'll work without destroying your car." She paused, running her eyes over the Supra. Matt could see she was working out the mechanics in her head, and couldn't stop himself from grinning slightly at her reaction. She caught him looking, caught herself distracted and looked away, brushing a strand of white hair behind her ear.

_What was that, embarrassment?_

"Maybe that's kinda cool," she said quietly. "But you...you're still an idiot."

He shrugged. "Got used to that a long time ago."

She smiled a little, but before he could say another word, Kobe spoke up: "So looks like we've got ourselves a new dark horse in town, a new challenger and another new enemy for Winter. After all this excitement maybe a good thing you _can't_ race Westwood no more tonight..."

"What?"

Kobe laughed. "Your car, man. I mean, look at it!"

Matt looked, despite not wanting to. Steam still continued to vent from the engine, and although the black smoke had stopped the Supra still looked like it had just barely made it through the race of its life. The mental barriers collapsed. Cold, harsh realisation hit Matt. There was no way now he was racing Westwood tonight.

"Shit!" he hissed, his hands going to his temples. "Shit, shit, _shit_!"

"Take, it easy, bro, you'll get your chance."

He turned quickly. "_This _is my chance. I need a car. I need to race that sonofabitch tonight."

Kobe recoiled a step at Matt's reaction as Winter stepped up, her curious expression back on her face. He saw her regarding him with a look like a scientist examining some kind of new discovery under their microscope, curious and a little wary.

"What's up with you? Why the rush?"

"I like going fast."

Her arms folded. "Fine, forget I even asked."

Kobe's voice after a couple of silent seconds: "Maybe it ain't as bad as it looks, right? Figure maybe I owe you some help after you won me that bet. He looked across to Winter. "Fixable?"

She exhaled slowly. "If I had a day. And if I gave a shit."

Matt looked up to see her grinning. "Which of course I don't," she said, adding a wink.

Despite himself, despite the situation, he smiled at her. Genuine, warm, much more of a thank you than he could have ever put into words at that moment. The feeling pushed back some of the worry, calmed his mind a little. As the panic subsided, the analytical section of his brain flared to life. _I need to race Westwood tonight_.

_Problem: My car won't make the race_.

_Solution: Find another car_.

His head snapped up. "Yours."

Winter frowned in confusion. "Mine?"

"Yeah."

"My what...?" It suddenly became clear to her. "Oh no, nooo way. No frigging way."

"Come on, please?"

"No way! I'm not letting you do _that_," she angrily pointed to the Supra, "To _my_ car."

"Please Winter, I need your car. This is _so_ important to me and I can't do it without your help." Matt sighed. "Look, you take the eight G's I won, that's yours if I can use your car, you keep that as payment."

"Why don't you use Kobe's car? You know, someone that _likes_ you?"

"I don't like Skylines."

"And what's wrong with Skylines?" Kobe protested.

Matt hesitated before speaking. "Nothing. Nothing, really... Too heavy for a straight drag for my tastes."

Winter raised both palms up. "See, what have I been telling you all this time?"

"Ah, screw the both of you. Wouldn't know a decent car if it bit you on the ass."

"Yours couldn't catch my ass." She turned back to Matt, "I can't believe you said all that crap to me and _still_ expect me to hand over my car! Said you could, what, show me how to drive?"

"I reacted like a jackass, okay? It's not the first time and unfortunately it won't be the last. I only said that because you made me look like an ass in front of everyone."

"You did a pretty good job of that yourself."

"Only after you tore me out in front of the whole crowd. Just telling me to go screw myself would have been preferable."

"Maybe for you, but I like tormenting people."

"Yeah, tell me about it," he sighed.

"So what you're saying is you didn't mean any of it, and you were just trying to protect your fragile male ego? Macho boasts, big car; you compensating for something, Reilly? Something teeny-tiny?"

He stared hard at her innocent smile before replying. "Do we have to turn this into a psychology lesson? No, I didn't mean it, right? You more than proved you can handle a car, and you would have won if it wasn't for my afterburner." He held his hands up as a gesture of sincerity.

Winter cracked a beaming smile that lit up her face. "Keep this up for a while and I may not even hate you."

"I'm touched," he deadpanned.

"You should be. It's an honour to be anywhere _near_ me."

Matt looked to his damaged Supra before turning back to Winter. "Can we sort this out, please?"

"Why do you want my car so bad?"

"One, I know it's damn good and fast, you proved that out there. Two..."

"Oh, so _now_ you're saying it's good? My little Barbie car is now good? _Damn_ good I believe?"

"For the love of God! You wanna quit this?"

She casually motioned for him to continue, clearly taking some degree of amusement form the whole thing.

"Two, RX-7's and Supras are set up pretty identically, so unless you've made big changes to the interior, it'll feel just like a Supra."

"That's _it_? It _feels_ better?"

"It'll be more natural for me to drive, I'm used to how a Supra feels."

Winter paced around in a circle. "So first you insult my...," she said finally.

"Yeah I know, I know, I'm sorry," he said, interrupting. "Your car is great, mine sucks. You're a great driver, I'm talentless. Okay? I wouldn't ask, but I'm desperate. Racing Westwood means more to me than you'll ever know, and I can't wait until I get my car repaired. I have to do this tonight." He leaned in close to her. The scent of her perfume teased him, flashing rapid images of the both of them together into his mind, which he quickly dispelled. "Look, you take the eight G's, and there's another 20 in the back of my car if I screw up. That's your insurance policy."

She withdrew with an annoyed look on her face. "I've got insurance of my own, thanks, so you don't have to try and buy me," she spat in clipped tones.

"That's not what..." he started to snap before he sighed, paused, composed himself.

Kobe stepped in between the two of them. "Come on, Nuclear, one race, right? Not like you'll lose your car if Westwood wins, and you're hardly his biggest fan anyway."

"Exactly, so if anyone's beating him in my car it's me."

"Winter, baby, I know you're probably gonna swing a punch at me for saying this but tonight was to see who won the right to race Westwood, and Matt..."

"You don't have to remind me!"

"So give the man his chance. Hell, all this time you've been speaking to him, the race could have been over and done with. In fact, this is about the first time I've ever seen you talk with someone that's bea..."

She turned too quickly, holding up a finger to silence him. "One warning; shut up."

"I'm just saying this is a strange and wonderful new experience," he said with an amused smirk. Whatever it was in refrence to was lost on Matt.

She waved Kobe off with a dismissive shove, turning to face Matt, her mind made up to say no.

"Please," Matt said, pre-empting her. "I really need your help here. I know you don't know me, I know you don't even like me, and you've got no reason to trust me, and I know I'm asking a lot. If you're dead against it, I'll stop bothering you and I'll find someone else, but I don't know how good their cars really are until I see them in action. But I know what your car can do, I know it's good, and I swear to God I _know_ I can win with it," he practically growled. "And I'm not trying to insult you, but you can take the 28 G's _and_ my Supra and anything I've got in this entire frigging world, as long as I get to race Westwood." Matt caught her sky-blue eyes, and she could see no trace of bravado or ego in his face.

Only desperation.

"Please. You're my only hope."

Winter frowned, looked at the sky for a moment, turned on the spot. "Right, sure, fine. If only for the Star Wars reference. But this _doesn't_ mean I like you. And I mean it, you even _think_ about driving my car like you did there and I'll kill you."

Matt broke out in a wide grin of relief, "You'll have to catch me first."

Winter did not smile. "Oh, don't worry, I'll..."

She was interrupted by a roar that sounded like it came from Satan himself. Drawing up to the start line on Jones was a jet black 2010 Dodge Viper SRT-10, polished and gleaming like a mirror. Even for those who had seen it before, it still drew gasps of admiration. It simply radiated power.

Matt stared with a mix of admiration and horror. The body on the 2010 model was sleeker and more streamlined than previous Vipers, but had much more advances than just bodywork. The SRT-10 was equipped with a devastating 8.4-litre V10 engine that gave you 600bhp _before_ any modifications. 18-wheeler trucks don't have engines that big. Matt had driven in a 2003 Viper once before, and the sheer power had terrified him.

In the strictest of terms, it wasn't your usual street racer's car. But then again, Sean Westwood wasn't your usual street racer. Racers love nothing more than taking some Japanese import sub-compact, stripping it down and turning it into a rocket. Westwood's Viper however, was something else. It wasn't there to show technical skill or savvy, it was there to pound every other racer into the tarmac, and prove beyond doubt that he was the best.

The Viper came to a halt, inch perfect on the red starting line. Westwood emerged from it, like an A-list movie star showing up for a premiere, hands in the air and waving to all as if everyone was there just to see him. The crowd parted like the Red Sea as he casually strolled over to Matt, his entourage close behind.

"You ready for the worst defeat you've ever had?" asked Westwood. "I watched you drive out there, and I'll tell you something, boy, you're pathetic. Slipping on your first gear change, that's something that amateurs do." The entourage laughed. "And as for that little NOS toy of yours, very cute. You drive so badly, I'm surprised you even got off the start line," he sneered.

Matt felt his hands knot into fists. He had finally been pushed to breaking point. Normally he resisted the feeling, normally he ran as fast as he could from it, but Westwood was getting what was due one way or another. A shot of adrenaline sprayed into his brain as he lunged for Westwood, who simply stepped aside to let one of his hulking bodyguards through.

The huge crowd surrounding them surged as people tried to get a look in. Many of the crowd had seen people tangle with Westwood and his entourage before, and had yet to see someone come out as the winner.

The bodyguard drew to a halt in front of Matt, eclipsing him. "Don't try it," his deep baritone voice warned. "I'm giving you one warning."

"Look, Ferrigno," Matt snarled, "This is between me and him, so just..." Before he could go on, Matt felt himself being held back. He turned to see Winter gently shaking her head. A flare of his anger cooled and died as he saw her.

"Don't listen to Westwood," she whispered, "He's just trying to goad you."

"Yeah, well he's doing a damn good job of it."

"Listen to me," she said, moving in front of him, "You go out there angry and you'll just make mistakes all over the place. If this race means as much to you as you said, then you can't blow your chances just by being angry."

Matt stood for a moment, calming himself and letting everything sink in. What Winter was saying was true, he had come too far now to let it all fall away because of mind games. Even so, the rage that he spent his life avoiding picked at the back of his mind, telling him in warm, seductive tones that it would be quicker and easier if he just whirled and smashed Westwood's face to a pulp. It took a couple of breaths to remind himself why he was there, swallowing down the bile. He nodded silently to Winter before turning to Westwood, taking a deep breath before speaking. "What do I get if I win?"

Westwood laughed loudly, "Anything you like! Because if you win, it'll be a miracle! You haven't got a hope in hell, _boy_!"

Before he could lunge again, Matt heard Winter's voice in his ear, "You want to beat him, hurt him? Only way to do that is to do it on the road," she said, slipping her keys into his hand and taking his. "Now go kick his ass."

**XXX**

The start line was occupied again.

Two fenders, one from a black Dodge Viper SRT-10, one from a white Mazda RX-7.

And one tall rockabilly redhead, standing with her arms raised.

Matt could feel the bile rising in the pit of his stomach. In ten seconds or less, this would all be over, one way or another.

The arms were still.

The laptop on the passenger seat monitored the power of the engine, with peaks and troughs appearing on the display as Matt gunned the engine.

Still.

Still.

This was it. This is what it all came down to. This was what he'd planned, the only option he could see. All other plans were impossible or took too long, he had to race Westwood.

Still.

Still.

'_Help me, Matt_._'_

Still.

Still.

He whispered to no-one; inaudible, almost silent, "This is for you."

Still.

Still.

Still.

"COPS, COPS, COPS!"

The first swarm of patrol cars rounded the corner onto Jones at speed, a blur of flashing lights and a symphony of screaming sirens as they sped towards the racers from beyond the finish line. They fanned out, trying to take up as much of the street as possible, with a couple of cars skidding to a halt and barricading the road.

The second wave of cops came in from behind the racers, forming a thick line across the road, blocking off all available escape routes. The cops advanced inwards like twin tidal waves, closing the racers in the middle. No way forward, no way back, no way out to the sides.

Jones Avenue had become a rat trap.

Racers sprinted flat out for their cars, gunning engines and taking off in all directions, desperate to avoid the cops. Cars weave in and out of one another, shooting off like vermin escaping a nest. Suddenly, everyone loses interest in winning or looking good; now they're just trying to get their asses to safety. Getting busted by the cops means fines, prison terms, or even worse, losing your car and your licence.

In the middle of all the confusion, two cars sat in the centre of Jones, seemingly unaware of the pandemonium going on all around them.

Westwood turned his head, smiling smugly, "I guess this means it's all over?" he asked, shouting over the noise.

Matt faced him, "Bullshit. The way I see it, we've only just begun."

They both hit the gas.

The Viper shot off the start line like an Apollo moon rocket.

Matt was slack-jaw stunned, it was like nothing he had ever seen before. The horsepower must have been absolutely staggering for acceleration like that. In a split-second, the Viper was already up and powering away from him.

But Matt wasn't willing to leave it at that. _You think you're getting away you bastard?_

He floored the accelerator, the rear tyres spinning out a puff of burnt rubber before they found traction and launched the Mazda forward.

_Nah, you ain't going anywhere_.

Ahead of him, the Dodge swerved a patrol car that raced haphazardly across its path, the back of the Viper swinging out before Westwood swiftly brought it under control without a major loss of speed.

_Hmm, maybe you are pretty good after all_.

The manoeuvre gave Matt the opportunity he needed as he closed the gap on Westwood's rear to ten feet.

With his eyes locked firmly on Westwood's tail, Matt punched the RX-7 up a gear and slipped in closer behind the Viper, into the slipstream. As the two cars raced along Jones, they were forced to constantly weave to avoid frantic racers bailing out in all directions. For every move Westwood made, Matt copied it to the letter, dodging and weaving like prize fighters.

It was lucky for Matt that in this closed environment, the Viper was unable to get up to full power. If it did, Westwood would be straight out of there.

_Closed environment?_ thought Matt, catching sight of what lay ahead of him. _More like too enclosed_.

20 metres down the road, the cops were trying to form a third blockade across the street to block the racers in even more. The barricade was partially complete, with only a central gap just wide enough for a car to get through. Very soon, a final police cruiser would plug that gap.

_Looks like we're blockade running, huh, Westwood?_

Suddenly, headlights flared in Matt's eyes as a terrified racer in a bright yellow Volkswagen Jetta charged towards him and Westwood in a desperate run from the cops. He was 10 metres away from them, heading for the police barricade in the opposite direction.

With the RX-7, Viper and Jetta all heading for the same gap, it was going to be tight, if not impossible.

As he sped through the gap in the blockade, the driver of the Jetta slammed on the brakes in his panic at seeing two cars rushing towards him. As a result, the steering locked up tight, the whole car becoming completely unresponsive. The Volkswagen belched smoke from its tyres as it began fishtailing wildly, the rear of the car swinging back and forth as the car began to pivot on the front two wheels, still skidding forward.

"You stupid ass!" yelled Matt as he watched the Jetta slide towards him, all but destroying any chance of getting through the gap. The Volkswagen was too close to the space and too wild to be certain of anything.

Ahead of him, Matt saw Westwood cut his Viper to the left, just as the rear of the Jetta swung that way, hurtling towards the Dodge. The evasive action took the Viper way out to the left, wrecking almost any driver's chances of making the gap in the police line. Most drivers would be lucky to avoid slamming straight into a police cruiser.

_Please, please damage that car_, prayed Matt, hoping for anything to slow Westwood down.

With just inches to spare, the Viper shot past the Volkswagen, the yellow Jetta's swinging rear barely missing the Dodge. However, the Viper was wildly off course for the gap in the barricade.

With a brief flash of the brakelights, Westwood swung the back end of the Viper out to the left before punching a shot of NOS into the supercharged engine. The resulting blast of power literally _fired_ the Viper straight forward, countering the skid to the left immediately and aiming it back to the gap.

Most drivers would have slammed into the barricade, but it was clear now that Westwood wasn't just _any_ driver.

"Damn!" hissed Matt as he rounded the Jetta on the right, passing through the gap in the police line a half-second after Westwood. Again, he closed in behind the Viper, which was powering its way directly out of Jones.

_Enough distractions, we're ending this_.

On hearing the laptop on the seat beeping, Matt hit a small white button on the wheel and upshifted at the exact moment the Nitrous hit. The RX-7 accelerated rapidly, thumping into the rear of Westwood's Viper, rocking both vehicles.

Matt hoped to God that Winter was no longer around to see that.

With the two cars now just inches apart, they continued their bizarre dance through the swarm of racers and cops. Upshifting again, Matt swerved out to the right, and could see he was clearly picking up ground on Westwood. The heavier American muscle car may have had the edge when it came to raw power, but the Japanese import greatly outperformed it in terms of manoeuvrability. And in the enclosed hornet's nest of Jones, that meant the odds were even for both racers.

A faint smile crossed Matt's face as he drew level with the Viper, seeing Westwood's furious expression off his left shoulder. All he had to do was keep...

_Shit!_

From out of nowhere, an Acura rapidly came in from the right, the driver wildly trying to evade a police cruiser locked on his tail. In a less than second, he would collide with Matt on their present course.

_Shit, I either keep going after Westwood and get blindsided by some asshole or I lose him and have to wait for another chance_.

In a split-second, he knew what he had to do. Cursing with rage, he pulled the handbrake on and swerved the RX-7 to the left, just missing the rear of the Viper as it charged away from him.

The Mazda spun out completely, the tail swinging round wildly in a 360 as Matt struggled to regain control. It slid up on to the sidewalk on the left-hand side of the street, ending up facing back towards the start line on Jones. The speeding Acura missed Matt by a couple of feet, mounting the kerb and ploughing into a chain link fence that surrounded a complex of buildings, pulling a large section of it to the ground.

Above all the noise, the roar of Sean Westwood's Dodge Viper could still be heard powering off into the distance.

Matt punched the wheel in frustration, before realising that Westwood escaping him wasn't his only problem, not by a long shot. No, the mass of cops flooding into Jones was a pretty big problem to say the least.

No, scrap that. The two police cruisers that had blocked him off were his biggest problem right now.

They had both come in at an angle, forming a V-shape around the RX-7, trapping him in a triangle formed of the two cars and an upright section of the chain link fence. In a second, the cops in those cars would be out and pulling their guns on him, and it would be all over.

Inwardly, Matt apologised for losing Westwood. _But there will be another time, I promise_._ But right now I have to get the hell out of here, because I'm no use to anyone in a prison cell_._ And jail ain't my scene any more, I ain't going back there_.

Just as the doors of the cruisers were swinging open, he jammed the RX-7 into reverse, backing away from the cops and into the chain link fence. Weakened from the Acura's hit, the upright section crashed down easily enough, hitting the ground with a cymbal's crash.

Looking out the rear windscreen, Matt could see he was in some kind of industrial estate, a complex of small factories and warehouses placed close together. He spun the Mazda in a 180, shifted into first and pulled away. To his right, past the semi-standing chain link fence, the battle between the cops and racers was drawing to a close. With just the stragglers remaining, it seemed as if most of the racers had escaped, even though a few were cuffed and slumped down at the side of their cars.

A large part of him hoped that Winter and Kobe had escaped.

Spotting a possible way out, Matt steered the RX-7 to the left and taking it into a narrow alley between two sizeable buildings. As he accelerated away, blue and red flashing on the brickwork around him told him he was not alone.

Without a rear-view mirror, Matt was forced to look over his shoulder, and was aggravated but not too surprised to see two police cruisers following him.

_Still, I've been in situations like this plenty of times before_. _Unfortunately_.

The wail of the police sirens seemed even louder in the enclosed space as the three cars raced down the narrow alley, kicking up waves of trash and dust as they sped along. Thankfully for Matt, the alley was far too narrow for the cops to attempt to overtake him and cut him off.

_But this alley will only last for so long_. _Have to think of something fast_.

He punched the NOS button on the wheel and was forced back against the Sparko seat as the RX-7 put distance between him and the cops, just a few seconds worth of breathing room.

After 200 feet that passed by in an instant, the alley opened up into a wide courtyard, with two-level buildings surrounding it on all sides. A number of passages ran off from the courtyard, which could be seen from above as a clockface. Alleys ran off at 1, 3, 5, 9 and 11, with a tall crane standing just off-centre in a raised loading bay.

_What the hell,_ thought Matt as he aimed the Mazda directly for the loading bay. _Time to end this_. He glanced over his shoulder to see the two police cars peeling off in opposite directions as they emerged from the alley.

Concentrating on the bay, he saw that it was a raised concrete structure that rose in a ramp to five feet above the ground, enabling fork-lifts and other vehicles to load cargo into semi-trailers. Another quick look over his shoulder informed him that the lead police car had stuck doggedly to his rear, while the other car had split off to block him.

A worried half-smile appeared on Matt as he quickly came up with a plan, flooring the accelerator. Accordingly, the cruiser following him gained speed as the two cars raced towards the loading bay at 50mph.

_I just hope this works_.

He upshifted again into fifth, set on an unshakeable course for the loading bay. A glance back showed the police cruiser closer than ever to him, on a few feet behind him and gaining.

Closer.

Closer.

Ten feet from the ramp of the bay, Matt wrenched on the handbrake, whirling the steering wheel hard to the right. The Mazda's rear wheels locked up, the RX-7 turning sharply on it's front wheels in a 180 degree turn. Skidding to a halt, the rear of the RX-7 had just missed smashing into the loading bay's ramp by a few inches, something that would have killed any chance of Matt's escape.

Unfortunately for them, the chasing police were not as lucky or skilful. And police cruisers are far less manoeuvrable than RX-7's.

Swerving left to avoid ploughing right into the Mazda at high speed, the driver of the cruiser could not correct his course quickly enough to avoid clipping the loading bay's ramp. The front right wheel of the cruiser mounted the ramp, which was just enough to overbalance the already veering car. Running off the ramp, the Ford cruiser flipped over to the left, coming down on the side of the chassis before it went the full way over onto the roof.

The impact shattered the roof lights and killed the wailing siren instantly, replaced by a screech of metal against concrete as the car slid along on its roof for 15 feet, sparks flying all the way. With the RX-7 still stationary, Matt grinned as the two cops staggered from the upturned patrol car, shaken but alive and mostly unhurt.

The grin vanished as he realised the second police car was heading back across the courtyard towards him at speed. He smoothly pulled away, heading towards a large two-storey warehouse that sat at the bottom of the clockface courtyard. Disappearing into the darkness, he could only hope there was another way out.

**XXX**

The remaining police cruiser slowly entered the darkened warehouse, the cop in the passenger seat laughing softly. "Little bastard's got himself trapped in here. You see him?"

The cruiser's driver squinted into the gloom, into the dusty, disused and decrepit warehouse. Machinery was scattered around the place, rusting slowly from occasional rain. Litter and other discarded detritus carpeted the bare concrete floor, and in the very centre of the building, a large access ramp led up to the first floor. "Nah, he isn't down here." He pointed towards the ramp. "You want to call in backup?"

"For one little punk? I think we can take him," the passenger said, patting the pump-action Remington shotgun that was clipped to the roof.

"Yeah, but you seen what he did to Eriksen and Rosenberg back there."

"That was with a car. Not much he can do in here."

The driver touched the gas, the car moving slowly and steadily towards the ramp, not wanting to be surprised. But as the cruiser pulled up to the first floor, the only thing they found was the entire level shrouded in blanketing darkness. The pulsing pursuit lights did little to illuminate the area, instead giving everything a strange slow-motion feel.

The driver pulled a high-powered flashlight from the dash and held it out of his window, sweeping the beam back and forth. Suddenly, with a reflective flash, the beam settled on a white Mazda RX-7 sitting in a corner of the warehouse.

The driver narrowed his eyes as the car crept slowly towards the Mazda, making sure he was right. "Car's empty," he finally said to his passenger, both of them leaning forward in their seats to quint at the Mazda through the darkness. "Guess he decided to run on foot. Little prick can't be very far."

"Still," his partner replied. "I'd prefer to catch him before..."

He was abruptly cut off by a loud _whoosh_ that came from inside the cruiser itself, a sound that came from the twin airbags inflating in an instant and smashing into them, knocking the wind out of both cops. The large safety devices shot out, as they were designed to do so in the event of an accident.

But this was no accident.

Matt Reilly knew this as he stepped out from behind the cruiser, dropping a thick piece of metal piping to the floor with a metallic clunk. No, it had certainly been no accident, and the dent he had put in the rear fender of the cruiser was testament to that.

He broke into a run, snatching the flashlight from the driver's outstretched arm and shattering the bulb against the bonnet of the cruiser. The warehouse was again plunged into a pulsating semi-darkness, which Matt quickly merged into.

_Should hold them for a while_, he thought, as he sprinted to the RX-7 before the two officers could escape. Over the birthcry of the Mazda's engine, Matt could hear the dazed and angered shouts of the cops as they tried to clamber out from their seats. _You were lucky tonight, Reilly, remember that_. _But three fights, two wins, and that ain't bad at all_.

He gunned the engine and was gone.

**XXX**

It was a tactic he had used before.

As soon as you lose the cops, find a place to hide; it was one of the first things he had been taught in New York by the late, great Vegas McCoy, his mentor when it came to all things cars. _"Get off the damn street as soon as possible and keep low until the heat dies down,"_ McCoy had urged, drilling the point home to Matt. _"A lot of folks think that once you lose the cops, you're fine. Bull, more often than not, a good half hour later they get picked up while driving around like nothing's going on."_

This and other lessons from his past came back to him now, the ghosts of a former life. _Well, maybe not such a former life_, he thought. With nothing but a leaky pipe and the sound of occasional passing traffic to distract him, all Matt had were memories, thoughts and worries.

He had found a cheap, sleazy, one-storey motel, one that crucially had a place round the back where he could park the RX-7 and not worry about it being spotted by some nosy 5-oh.

But right now, the cops really were the least of his worries. He lay on the lumpy bed, counting the cracks in the ceiling, wondering how the hell he was going to save this situation now. He had lost his chance with Westwood, he had lost his car, and he had lost the 28G's he had. The only thing to do now was to keep going back to races until he found Winter again, and try to get his car back. Then he could pay to have his car repaired, and then he could race Westwood, but until then, it was a waiting game.

_But how long do I have to wait?_

_I can't bear waiting any longer than I have to_.

He sat up on the bed and reached for the bottle of soda sat on the floor, only to find it empty. He grimaced, things were just going from bad to worse.

Suddenly, a sharp knock at the door made him jump. As a jolt of panic ran through him, he composed himself; the cops couldn't have found him, not with how careful he had been. No, it was probably either the motel clerk to tell him something or a hooker looking for business, that was all. He got to his feet, wandered to the door, unhooked the chain and twisted the knob, "Look, it's late and I'm tired, so..."

_Click_.

A 9mm handgun was being pointed at his face.


	6. Tonight, Tonight

_**CHAPTER 6:**_

_**TONIGHT TONIGHT**_

"Where's my car?"

"Jesus, Winter! How...?"

"_Car_, or I blow your head off." The handgun was a few inches from Matt's nose, Winter Frost not showing an ounce of nerves.

"Can I explain?" he asked, looking around to see if anyone was watching. After all, even in a sleazy, run-down motel, onlookers were bound to call the cops, and that would only cause more harm than good.

She shrugged, "As long as I get the car, sure."

He exhaled a little. "Well, first of all, don't you want to come inside?"

She scowled. "Why, so you can try and pull a fast one on me? Who you got in there with you, your buyer?" Her eyes darted around the interior of the doorway. "What was the plan, sell my car on then come back for your Supra?"

Matt's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "What? No! The plan was I can tell you what happened and so you don't get arrested for pointing a gun at my head. I'm sure that's still a crime in California."

She muuled it over, changed her stance, seemed to relax a little. "Where the _hell_ is my car, Matt?" A tinge of dread in the question, the anger and suspicion fading. "If you've wrecked it I _swear_ I'll shoot you in the balls and leave you to die." She uncocked the gun and slipped it into the back of her jeans.

"Would you chill out already? The car's fine. I hid it round the back of here precisely so it _wouldn't_ get picked up by the cops. Anyway, you've still got my money and my Supra."

She laughed, "That piece of crap? You'd kicked hell out of the engine so much that I nearly didn't get away from the cops. And don't worry, the car and your money is back safe and sound at my garage."

"You own a garage?" The relief washed over him. The night hadn't gone exactly as he'd wanted but he wasn't _completely_ out of the fight yet.

"Misogyny, really?" Her hand moved to the back of her jeans. "You looking to get shot?"

"Hey! I'm just curious, that's all. I need someplace to get my car repaired. You have spectacular anger management issues, you know that?"

"What I really need is to see that my car's fine."

"Sure, I'll take you to your car," he said with a half sigh.

"About time. If there's any dings I'm hammering them out with your head."

"Christ, I can see why they call you Nuclear."

She beamed saccharine sweetly. She couldn't have taken the piss more with words.

Matt grabbed the key and shut the door behind him, motioning away from the room. "Fine, car. And then I'm going for something to eat, or are you gonna shoot me for that too?"

**XXX**

The waitress filled Winter's coffee cup for the second time.

"I don't know how you've got the appetite for that," said Winter, gesturing at the greasy bacon cheeseburger Matt was about to force into his mouth. He paused, looked at her, looked at the burger, back at her, before offering it silently to Winter.

"Ewww! Um, no...uh, thank you, but no."

"What's wrong with my burger?"

"What's right with it? It's dead animal in a bun. I mean, no offence and all..."

Matt looked apprihensively at the burger in his hands, suddenly seeing it in a new light after Winter's less-than-appealing description. Weighing it up versus the feeling of hunger in his stomach, he bit into the burger and managed to miss the tiny look of disgust on Winter's face.

Oddly enough to her, Matt had ordered a thick slice of banoffee pie along with his burger, only to happily wolf it down before he had even touched a single fry. Winter had raised an eyebrow at this, and he'd batted any upcoming question away with _"It's just something I do."._

"And I mean it's like, 2.30 in the morning and you're hungry for _that_?"

"All this excitement gets me hungry," he mumbled through a mouthful of meat. "Boy needs to keep his strength up, my mom always said."

"Yeah, excitement..." she breathed. "Welcome to L.A!" she added with a cheesy exaggerated wink and thumbs-up.

Matt smiled. "_And_ it's just been a little while since someone pulled a gun on me."

Her cheeks darkened. "Yeah...sorry about that. Bet you're glad to hear it's a fake?"

"A fake?"

"Yeah, a replica," she shrugged. "You think I'm gonna go around pointing _real_ guns at people?"

"What I think is that you're drinking too much coffee." He shook his head. "You're crazy, you know that?"

"I just love my car."

Matt paused mid-chew. "Talking of which, how in the hell did you find me?"

She grinned, "Told you I had insurance. There's a tracking device in my car, so I just hopped in my tow-truck and just followed the signal out here. You really think I would have let you race without it being in there? Hell, I don't even know you."

He swallowed and sat back in the booth. "Nothing much to know about me, just your average New Yorker."

She half leaped out of the seat, pointing a finger at Matt and grinning. "Ah ha! So Mysterio finally gives something away!"

"Jesus, I didn't think I was that interesting."

"Interesting? Hell, you're all everyone's been talking about this past week. You're like some cowboy in a western or something, y'know, like wassisname, Clint Eastwood."

He smiled a little. "Yeah, The Man With No Name from Brooklyn."

"Talking of which, shouldn't you talk all like, you know, _heeey_?" she said, putting on some undertermined accent.

Matt blinked. "What am I, The Fonz?"

Her lips bunched into a tiny annoyed pout he couldn't help but find cute. "No, but you know, like, _heeyy, I'm from Noo Yoik, you'se mess with me, you'se messin' with the whole bougatsa_."

He laughed, spluttering into his soda.

"What?" Her brow furrowed, her pout returning.

"No, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but that is awesome. Oh, I only wish I was that much of a cliche. Anyway, it's only the guidos that try and talk like that, and I'm just a regular dude from Bed-Stuy."

"Never had you for hipster-lingo."

"It ain't hipster where I'm from. And I think you mean brugad instead of bougatsa, if you mean _the family_."

"Oh. What's bougatsa then?"

"It's a Greek breakfast pastry."

She shrugged it off. "So apart from being a walking _patisserie_ what else are you offering up about yourself?"

He tipped his head. "I tell you, I'm just your average racer. There's nothing special about me at all." He took a bite, swallowed. "Not the greatest thing you can say about yourself, but in my case it's true."

Winter stared at him over her cup. "So you're _nothing special_, yet you've got one of the best cars I've seen in a while, rigged with some crazy-ass hyperdrive flame-thrower thing? _And_ you've come all the way across the country _just_ to race that prick Westwood?" She smiled. "Must think there's something special about yourself if you think you can be the best in L.A?"

He chuckled. "You just keep getting it wrong about me."

"I'll work you out."

"Doubt it."

"Think you're some kind of an enigma?" She looked up from her cup at him. "I'm good with puzzles."

"I'm sure you are," he said, holding her look before their laughter broke the tension. _Focus, Matt_, _focu on why you're really here_. "So, tell me more about Westwood. All I know so far is that he ain't exactly a popular guy."

"Well you've seen him up close and personal, you know what he's like. Little rich boy from a big rich family, slummin' it with us street scumbags. Don't get me wrong, he's a hell of a racer, but his personality leaves a lot to be desired."

"Anything else I should know? What's with all the heavies with him?"

"You mean the bodyguards?" she laughed. "I always figured he just wanted to look important. Hell, forget about the hired muscle, you should see all those dumb girls he's always got around him. Swear to God, some of them are so strung out that they need people to remind 'em to breathe."

"You think he's, what, giving them drugs?"

Winter froze, staring at him inquisitively. "You a cop or something?"

Matt's laughter echoed round the empty diner. "No, no, but people always seem to think that. I ask too many questions, I know."

"Sorry to jump to conclusions, but a while back, there was this undercover cop..."

"Yeah, so I've heard."

"Ah, he was some dumb pretty boy."

"Sure I'd kick his ass."

"Just don't bounce him into my car again."

Matt ignored the comment. "So these girls, just making Westwood look important too?"

Winter bit her lip, paused for a few seconds as she looked around herself. "Well," she said, her voice low, "I heard a couple things that Westwood _introduces_ these girls to his high-flying friends, if you know what I mean. As I said, just heard that as a rumour. What's this got to do with racing him anyway?"

"Nothing," Matt said sharply. "Know your enemy."

He felt his nails digging into his palms, not even aware that he'd made fists. He hadn't been sure before, not completely, but after meeting him, after tonight, Matt could feel the anger welling up inside him, threatening to explode, threatening to make him rip Westwood's head off the next time they met. Rip it off and enjoy every blood-boiling moment of it.

But instead he caught himself, concentrated, forced it down, back down into the pit of his stomach and bottled it all up, as he always did. As he always had.

Until that one night.

Until that one night when he just couldn't take it anymore and exploded. Exploded like a supernova, years of anger and frustration rushing out of him, making him snap, making his head spin and eyes blurry with rage. His hands had come down over and over and over and over and...

"Matt?"

He came back to the present with a jolt.

"You okay?" Winter stared at him across the booth table, concern in her eyes.

He took a deep breath to regain his composure. "I'm fine." He smiled; it was hollow but it would pass for convincing enough. "I'm fine. Anyway, I don't want to sit here and talk about Westwood all night. What about you, Winter Frost?"

Scowl. "Are you laughing at my name?"

He grinned, genuine this time, immediately warmed by her reaction and holding his hands up in mock-surrender. "No, no! I've heard the stories, and I'm not dumb enough to laugh at you!"

"Good," she blushed slightly, "I wouldn't want to have to kill you."

"Like having me around?"

"Nah, it's just too easy. Anyway, my parents are old-school hippies from San Fran, alright? I was born with a little lock of white hair, and they thought it was a sign. Didn't know it was gonna stay like this for the rest of my life," she said, pulling a strand into her view. "You know Frost is actually my father's family name for real? It ain't like they changed it, which is kinda spooky, huh?"

"Hey, they could have called you 'Dee'."

"Har-har. Not like I haven't heard that one a thousand times," she groaned. "My parents just liked the name Winter."

"So do I," he blurted out, rather suddenly.

She smiled and took a sip of coffee to mask her blushing, "Thanks. So you want to come back to mine?"

**XXX**

"Sir."

She shook his shoulder gently. "Sir, We'll be landing in Los Angeles in about 15 minutes." The stewardess smiled sweetly, crouched down beside the seat. "All passengers are supposed to wear their seatbelts while we land."

He grunted, still groggy from sleep. His neck was stiff and sore from lying in the economy class seat, making him swear that when he was going back, he was going by train, no matter how long it would take. He ran his hands over his thin, weathered face, feeling the fresh stubble poking through. "Miss?"

The stewardess smiled automatically, "How can I help you?"

"What time is it?"

"It's 2:40am, Saturday, local time."

He grunted again, adjusting his watch. "Sorry, I'm still on New York time."

The stewardess moved on, and he watched her ass all the way, but it did little to make him feel better. He was tired, jet lagged and grouchy. But what pissed him off the most was that he had been sent to _Los Angeles_, of all places, where the heat made him sweat like he was in a sauna and 90% of the people seemed to be insane. A city and a climate he hated, and his entire weekend ruined. And to think it was all because of one little prick.

He was going to _kill_ Matt Reilly.


	7. 7

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	8. 8

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	31. 31

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End file.
